Things Bright and Beautiful

by Anbara Salam

  ‘What did you do?’ said Bea.

  ‘Me or Santra?’

  Bea goggled at her.

  Santra smiled, then her face dropped. ‘He’s stupid but he has all the spells. People listen to him. He wants to get all the girls on the island with his pen and needle.’

  Bea watched as Santra gnawed on another green naus. She squeezed her arm again, away from the wound, back towards her heart. ‘I wish he were dead,’ she said.

  Santra spat out a shard of stone, and rubbed the shrapnel from her lips on the back of her hand. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘you and me.’

  31

  As soon as the sun began to rise, they set to work. With only one good arm, Bea couldn’t help much. And whenever she stood upright, the world changed angles, and she felt seasick and confused. Santra pointed her into the bushes around the house to dig up a pile of weeds, prising them out of the earth with her bushknife to keep the roots intact. When Bea had collected a heavy pile, Santra walked her around behind the house. She motioned for Bea to stand with her back against the wall, while she walked tentatively in the open grass, pausing after every step and piercing the ground with her bushknife. The wall of the house was rough against Bea’s palm. She could feel bubbles in the plaster, like blisters.

  ‘Are you doing leaf magic?’

  ‘Be quiet.’

  Santra stepped and tapped, and stepped and tapped, until she seemed to find what she was looking for. She crouched and dug around in the dirt. She cut into the liana with her bushknife.

  ‘Are you burying something?’

  Santra ignored her. Bea came behind her, to see better, but Santra swatted her away and pointed back towards the house.

  It seemed to take hours. Santra burrowed and poked. She lay flat on her belly and scratched at the red clay with her nails. She coughed and sweated while Bea stood and watched. Eventually, Santra laid a rough circle of twigs on the ground. Bea wondered if it was a holy circle. Would she have to stand inside it? More spells, more prayers. Santra called her over to stand behind her.

  ‘Slide your knife there,’ Santra said, pointing to a place in the grass.

  With her shaky left arm, Bea pushed the blade into the turf. It met something hard, then yielded to a hollow pocket of air.

  ‘Oh!’ Bea said. ‘There’s a gap!’

  Santra levered her own knife in the earth on the other side of the circle. They jiggled the blades back and forth like a saw, then clumsily lifted out a jagged circle of vegetation and a thin wooden raft. The earth released a wave of putrid air. Bea turned and retched over the grass. Santra covered her mouth with the skirt of her island dress, coughing, her eyes running water. Bea carefully approached the hole in the ground. And there it was – a huge, stone well. Hot-coloured, open-mouthed flowers gawped from the aperture. The smell was sickening. Santra stood over the edge of the well, her elbow over her nose. She picked up a pebble and threw it in. It landed in water with a distinct splash. What the sound told her, Bea had no idea. She crawled closer to the basin of the well. It was almost perfectly circular. She hadn’t seen anything like it on the island. It was so big, she and Santra could have swum in it.

  Santra disappeared, bringing back with her an armful of the weeds they had collected earlier. She bound a rough thatch of twigs together, while Bea sat with her back against the wall of the house. She kept raising her injured hand in the air and rubbing it towards the elbow. She tried to move the stumps of her fingers until she felt something awful wiggle. I’ll only ever count to eight and a half, she suddenly thought.

  Santra plaited the weeds through the thatch, and lying on her belly, slid the weave over the well. It looked odd, like a tufty bouquet of half-dead vegetation had sprouted in an orderly allotment. Santra smiled, and Bea gave her a thumbs up. Santra looked perplexed for a moment, then leant forward and pressed her thumb on to Bea’s.

  ‘It means we’ve done well!’ Bea giggled. She felt giddy.

  Santra stood back up and brushed red dust off her forearms. She nudged the well covering with her foot, and looked down at Bea.

  ‘Wait in the house,’ she said.

  So Bea waited.

  The day grew darker. Santra had been gone for hours. Bea was limp with hunger. She sat against the far wall, her head dropping in brief lapses of something like sleep. When her body relaxed, her arm dropped, grazing her knee or the wall or the floor, and she was startled awake again by peals of rolling pain.

  And then she heard Santra coming back again through the bushes. There was the distinct sound of crunching and chopping. Bea half stood, bracing herself against the wall. Her vision lurched. She stumbled closer to the window. The chopping sound was large and clumsy. Light from a hurricane lamp streaked dimly across the grass. Stepping out into the clearing, was Max. He rubbed the muscles at the back of his neck, and set the lamp down. He looked around the clearing, breathing heavily. Bea’s heart squeezed; she felt woozy.

  His face was coated in sweat, a pink flush high on his cheeks. He called into the dim light, ‘Bea?’ His voice was hoarse. He coughed into his fist, swallowed, and called again, ‘Bea, are you here? It’s me.’

  Bea’s heart was beating so hard she felt it was pressing up against the front of her throat. Pain from her arm curdled into her stomach. She put her left hand on the window frame to steady herself. A dribble of dry plaster dust crumbled as she touched it.

  Max walked towards her, towards the back of the house, peering uncertainly through the open window. Bea felt her intestines contracting; her mouth was dry. Where was Santra? She started to cry. She couldn’t help herself. Maxis. If he could just take her home. If he was just normal and he could just take her home.

  ‘Sweetheart.’ He stopped walking. ‘Don’t cry.’

  Bea gave up to the sobbing. It started in the hollow of her stomach and travelled to the top of her hand and back again. She crouched on the floor of the building, curled up over the centre of the agony – a hard walnut pit somewhere in her chest. She heard him walk towards the window, and half stood again, the world turning as if on a ship.

  ‘No!’ she screamed, white drops of spit falling over her lips. ‘No, Maxis! Round, come round, come round.’

  He stood for a second. Then he followed her gestures and began walking round to the front door. She stopped crying. She rocked back and forth on the floor until he was there. He was so tall. His hair was greasy.

  His stubble scuffed against her forehead. His breath smelt sweet. ‘Sweetheart, what are you doing here? Why did you run away?’

  ‘Santra took my fingers.’ It was all she could think to say. She held out her hand towards him. She looked up at him.

  His eyes widened as he gripped her forearm. ‘What have you done?’

  Bea felt her eyes rolling in her head. She felt so hot. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘What did she do? What have you done?’ He was shaking her arm now.

  ‘I haven’t – we had to – it was dead, but it’s OK.’

  Max dropped the arm. He wiped his hand over his face. His freckles were dark. He looked over his shoulder, back towards the front door. The light from the lamp shone over half his face. The pouches under his eyes stood up from his skin in crescent puffs.

  ‘Looking for you has caused us a lot of trouble.’ He turned back towards her, holding her left hand to help her up to her feet. Unsure how to touch her injured fingers, he put his palm under the elbow. Bea grabbed on to his shirt, standing awkwardly. ‘Are you well enough to walk?’ Max looked into her eyes appraisingly.

  ‘I don’t want to go back there.’

  ‘Beatriz,’ Max sighed. His eyelids lowered in exhaustion. When he opened them again, his eyes looked red and wet. ‘We don’t have a choice,’ he said softly.

  ‘I can’t – I can’t bear it –’ She shook her head, feeling the quivers go all the way into her shoulders.

  ‘You can’t bear it?’ His face was full of astonishment. ‘You?’ He took a jagged inhale of breath. ‘How should I bear this
? What more can I do for you?’

  Bea began to cry again.

  ‘Answer me – what more can I do for you? I’ve tried so hard to help you. Now it’s out of my hands.’

  ‘I don’t need help.’ She wiped the spittle from her lips with her good arm.

  Max held his fingers to the other. ‘You don’t need help? Look at what you have become!’ He shook her good arm. ‘Look at what has become of you!’

  ‘This wasn’t my fault,’ Bea said, feeling her head swim. ‘Max,’ she said quietly. ‘We don’t need to stay here. This isn’t right. You know it, I know you do. What happened – to Garolf, and to Jonson –’ She stuttered over their names. She could see Jonson’s face in the light of Mission House. He had asked her to leave. It felt like years ago.

  ‘Not your fault!’ Max was shouting now. He stood back from her, pointing down the hill towards the village. His body was twitchy with agitation. ‘Don’t you understand? Your pride, your stubbornness. You let it in. You let it in – you’ve brought this upon yourself, upon all of us!’

  She felt so tired. Her skeleton was heavy.

  ‘Come along,’ he gestured finally with his head, his voice calmer now. ‘We should begin at once. Let’s not lose any more time. They are waiting for us in the church.’ He nodded towards the front door.

  Bea looked over to where the bushknife was lying against the far wall.

  ‘Come along, Beatriz,’ he said again.

  Reflectively, Bea rubbed the naked hollow of her palm where the handle of the knife should fit. Outside the window, the clearing was dark and empty. Santra had gone. Maybe she had never meant to return. Bea shuffled past Max. Floorboards beneath her feet creaked. A sour smell rose from the dust.

  Max waited for her to pass, then followed. He walked behind her, and placed his left palm directly on the small of her back.

  Bea swallowed. She felt that hand, and something popped at the base of her skull. Something popped and tore open.

  That hand on her back. She was already walking. He wasn’t hastening her. He wasn’t guiding her. She was not stumbling. He was not helping. He was not quickening her steps. He was not touching her with love, with concern. He was not steering her. So, what purpose, then, did it serve? That hand on her back. The something tore, and it bubbled, it bubbled and it soared into her bloodstream.

  She stopped abruptly at the door lintel. He almost crashed into her. She felt his breath on the back of her neck.

  ‘Take your hand off me,’ she said. The bubbling bubbled. Her teeth bit down on the words.

  She felt him stiffen. The hand remained.

  ‘Remove your hand,’ she whispered again.

  She paused at the door frame. The night smelt cool. Droplets of dew flickered in the grass by the light of the lamp. Soft clouds hung in the sky.

  Bea bent down towards the lamp, and picked it up. The handle was warm. She turned on the spot and swung it across her body, upwards towards his face. Glass shattered.

  She ran.

  Max cried out. He brushed the shards from his hair, spat them out of his mouth. He tossed the guttering candle in the grass, he plucked a piece of hot glass from where it had lodged in his arm and dropped it into the earth.

  Bea ran, unsteadily. Her leg twisted underneath her. Max followed, barely hastening. In two short strides he had caught up with her. His face was white, his nostrils opened.

  He threw his weight on to her bad arm and she screamed so loudly she heard it echoing in her own eardrums.

  And there was a cracking, a soft crunching, a sweet stink rising.

  Bea slithered forward in the grass, clutching her arm to her, her body shaking in agony. She rolled forward over the weeds. A low yowl of pain came from the hole. A stirring, splashing sound.

  ‘Beatriz,’ he called. ‘Beatriz!’

  Bea rolled on to her side. The world spun backwards.

  ‘Beatriz. Beatriz? Are you there?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. Her tongue was swollen. She could taste blood in her mouth.

  ‘I can’t – the smell, I can’t get out –’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ he called. He paused to swallow. His voice was high. ‘I’m sorry. I promise. I won’t hurt you. You don’t understand – we won’t hurt you. We’re trying to help you. You need me. I can help you. Please.’

  Bea lay by the edge of the hole. She said nothing.

  ‘Bea!’ Max was shouting now. ‘Bea! Help me! You don’t know what you’re doing.’

  But Bea was concentrating on the shape on the other side of the house. Santra was standing by the corner of the wall. She was just standing there. She nodded her head at Bea, and disappeared out of view.

  When she reappeared, she was carrying the grassy wooden lid. The well covering. She waddled over to Bea, resting it against her legs above her knees. She sat in the grass and hovered it above the opening.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  Santra pushed it slowly across the grass. Slowly, it closed over the hole. Over the drooling flowers and the sickly smell and the sounds, the sounds.

  Bea lay on her back in the grass. The stars were starting to come out. White, like speckles on a goose egg.

  It’s only flesh, Bea thought.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my parents, Marion and Ahmad, for your inspiration and encouragement, and thank you to Walid, Hussein, Alya and Yasmin.

  Thank you to Judith Corrente and Wim Kooyker for your support during my DPhil, and your belief in my writing skills!

  I’m very grateful to my first readers: Natasha, Maria, Dave, Patsy and Photeini – thank you all for your insights.

  To my agent, Hattie Grunewald, your confidence in this book has changed my life, I can’t thank you enough. Everyone in the team at Blake Friedmann has invested so much positivity and enthusiasm into this project, thank you.

  To my editor, Juliet Annan, thank you for your humour, tireless energy and sharp eye. Thank you to Anna Steadman, to Shân Morley Jones, and to everyone at Penguin Fig Tree for the time and care that goes into their work.

  To Struan, the thank yous are never-ending, for the rounds of editing parties, hours of discussions, your confidence, patience and love – I’m so grateful.

  Extra-special acknowledgements are due to my comrades through exorcisms and hedge: Andrew, Chris, Kat, May, Rebecca and Robin: thank you. A particular thank you to Tabisini for your regional expertise.

  Finally, I am indebted to my Ni-Vanuatu colleagues, students and friends: tankyu tumas.

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  First published 2018

  Copyright © Anbara Salam, 2018

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  ISBN: 978-0-241-98224-2